


Lost and Found (Out)

by nightsfiction



Series: Lost and Found (Out) [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Peterick, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightsfiction/pseuds/nightsfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has been in love with his best friend for almost as long as he's known him. So when Pete starts hooking up with strangers frequently, he's far from happy about it. Will Patrick's jealousy force him to be honest about his feelings for once or will it just tear apart their friendship?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This originally was written to go along with a role-playing storyline. It's in first person, present tense, which is rare for me. It's set in 2005 or so. There is one line that suggests thoughts of self-harm, so if you worry this will upset you, you may not want to read this.
> 
> Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Pete Wentz or Patrick Stump or any other celebrity mentioned. The title also belongs to Fall Out Boy!

_If you wanna play it like a game,_  
Well c'mon c'mon let's play.  
Cause I'd rather waste my life pretending  
Than have to forget you for one whole minute.  
-Paramore “Crushcrushcrush” 

I keep telling myself that as long as he's happy, that's all that matters. The more I sit by and watch though, the more I notice that he never seems truly happy and if anything this is starting to look more like a self-destructive spiral. I know I should call him on it because I'm supposed to be his best friend, but how can I do that when there's no way in hell I could ever be calm and rational about this? The result is that I hate myself so much I can hardly breathe, hardly speak. 

 

“Patrick? Hey, Patrick!” I nearly jump out of my skin as the object of my thoughts leans in and invades my personal space. He has a big, dopey grin on his face that would normally make my heart skip, but I am too mad at him right now (or maybe mad at myself). I'm too sick with jealousy over the guy he was with last night. He must be in one of his hyper moods.

 

“Fuck off,” I snap. 

 

His eyes widen and hurt spreads rapidly across his face. I feel guilty. He opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it and he's looking at me like he's never seen me before in his life. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. “What,” I manage, almost making my voice sound calm and even.

 

“I...was just going to ask you if you wanted to hang out with me for like an hour. We're almost to the venue and you're already pretty much ready, right?” 

 

Deep breaths, I remind myself. “No,” I say flatly. 

 

“But you already did everything you usually do except for the last minute warming up,” he points out.

 

I sigh. “No, I mean. I don't want to,” I mutter, finally looking at him for a moment before I turn away to stare out the window. 

 

In my head, all I can see right now is him and that blonde-haired guy all over each other. It's not like I thought he was a blushing virgin or something. I knew that he had been with people. Seeing him hook up with multiple people basically right in front of my face over the last month has hurt a lot more than just knowing he was with someone used to hurt. 

 

He didn't make a big scene out of it before and constantly do it where I could see him and I don't know why he's started that now. I can remember every single place I saw that guy touch him in the tiny bit of time I stood in the same room. I'm half afraid that if I look at him enough I will be able to see hand-prints there, glowing against his tan skin. Hands that weren't mine. All over him. And they'll never be mine. An ache builds behind my eyelids, in my head, in my throat, in my stomach.

 

He swallows and he's still close enough that I can hear it, even though seeing me hunch towards the window should really be enough to let him know that I want to be left alone and that I don't want him in my bubble right now. “But...I don't want to be alone,” he says and it's almost a whisper. 

 

I swear, I love him more than anything else but right now I want to punch him. I just need some space to regain my sanity. I don't know how I can keep doing this. It's ripping me into so many shreds that soon there'll be no putting me back together. Is that what he wants? Of course, he doesn't know that's what he's doing. He has no idea why I've been a little moodier and sulkier than normal. 

 

“Then ask Joe or Andy,” I tell him, slipping my headphones on to signify that this conversation is over. _Please leave, before I fall completely apart._

 

“They're playing xbox,” he replies, loud enough to be heard over the music in my ears. “It's a two player game.”

 

“Then I don't care what you do,” I respond. “Go call one of your sluts or something. I'm certain they'll make sure to take care of you.” My voice sounds bitter even to my own ears and I pray he doesn't notice. I wish I'd had time to censor myself before those words tumbled out because now I'm going to be in deep shit.

 

It gets really quiet and I risk turning to look at him. His face is unreadable and something about that makes my stomach twist with worry. It's like he's crumpling in on himself but so far down that it's barely visible. I've never said anything that mean to him, ever. The last time I saw him look like that was about a week before I almost lost him. About a week before his suicide attempt. He turns around and walks away.

 

I wait about a minute before I risk following. When I find him, he's in his bunk with the covers pulled up all the way above his head. I'm not sure whether to let him be or try to make it better. It takes all of my control not to cry or do something regrettable to myself. ~~Any words I could carve into my skin won't make any difference in making him feel better.~~ I stand there frozen for a couple of minutes before I finally walk over. 

 

“I'm sorry,” I choke out softly. “I didn't mean it.” 

 

For a few seconds, I think he's going to stay under the covers and ignore me but then the covers come down. He doesn't look good. His eyes are bloodshot and any brightness has drained from them. “You sure seemed to mean it.” 

 

I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I'm just in a bad mood today. I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

 

“Yeah, what's going on with that,” he questions, his dark eyes searching mine carefully.

 

“Um...well you know how I get when I don't get enough sleep.” It's a lie but I hope he won't notice.

 

He gives me a look. One that asks if I really think I can get away with making up bullshit. “Seriously, Trick. What's up with you?”

 

I can't think up a lie quickly enough and there's no way I'm going to tell him the truth. “I just told you,” I state stubbornly. “Can I...come up there with you?” My voice is soft and tentative now.

 

“Sure,” he breathes out but there's a little undercurrent of something in his tone. Irritation? Sadness? Hurt? All three? I'm not dumb enough for a moment to believe that he thinks I'm telling him the truth.

 

Pete scoots back and turns onto his side, facing me. It's too close and it makes me shaky but I try not to show it. I wrap an arm around my best friend's waist and rest my head against his neck so I can escape the close scrutiny. 

 

It's silent for a little while, until the bassist breaks it. “Do you...really think I'm a slut?” 

 

My throat hurts in response to that. “I didn't say that. I said the other people were and I didn't mean to imply you are. I'm sure you're going through a phase or something and I'm here for you. I just think what you're doing might be kind of self-destructive. You don't seem to be holding up all that well after...after they leave. But I really, really didn't mean that you're a slut.” 

 

I feel like I've somehow done irreparable damage and maybe that's why I feel the need to press a soft kiss to Pete's shoulder and then his neck. His breath catches but I assume it's just from surprise. I've never kissed him before, anywhere. He's always the one kissing me on the cheek or the neck and I always try to pretend that it's not a big deal.

 

There aren't any words after that. I just lay there with my arms around him, pressed close against him. Something like an hour passes and then the bus is stopping and it's time to head into the venue and I have to warm up. I go through my usual warm-ups, which are several vocal exercises and some show tunes, and try not to watch the various storms pass across Pete's face. I just want to go over and pull him into my arms and never let go, but I can't take the hurt away when I put it there. I still don't know what's caused him to behave as he has been lately and I wish I knew but I'm also terrified of knowing. Besides, that would require me to talk to him about them again and I already have enough mental images that make my heart beat jealousy without adding a few new ones. 

 

When I wrote “Calm Before The Storm,” I was thinking of Pete. The lyrics “what you do on your own time's just fine. My imagination's much worse, I just never want to know” hit home a little too hard right now. Except that back then, I hadn't seen him with other people much. Now that I have, my imagination is sheer torture. And I'm afraid that if he ever knows how I feel, it will be over. The band, our friendship, my whole life. It's enough to deflate my lungs and steal every breath that I've ever taken. I push all of it to the back of my mind as much as I can while I finish my warm-ups because if I think about it too much, it makes my voice weak. 

 

When I finish I go to him wordlessly, sitting close enough that our thighs brush together and resting my head on his shoulder. “Are you okay,” I ask after a minute.

 

“Yeah,” he replies. It's too bad I don't believe him.

 

“If you need to talk--” I start to say it but get cut off.

 

“No.” 

 

“I really am sorry,” I whisper miserably, hiding the tears that burn down my face in his shoulder. I would probably sell my soul if I could take back what I said earlier. That's ridiculous and over-dramatic but it's likely true as well. 

 

“I know.” His voice is very slightly hoarse and it makes my heart seize in my chest.

 

We listen to the last few notes of the final opening band there together on the couch. Then it's all a blur of last minute things and we are taking the stage. The first minute of “Growing Up” is kind of rough and I have to try my best to beat my thoughts and feelings into submission in order to do this right. I can't let the kids down.

 

Pete seems to snap out of this funk that we're in sooner than I do because by the time we're a third of the way through “Chicago Is So Two Years Ago” he's behaving as if everything is perfectly normal between us. This makes me both happier and sadder at the same time. If he notices that I sing “Calm Before The Storm” with twice the passion I normally would, he doesn't show it. He does however look at me quizzically when I stumble slightly over the phrase “don't say it's over.” 

 

It's during “Get Busy Living...” when he first gets super close to me like he's taken to doing these days at shows in general. We are almost to the verse where we alternate performing vocals line by line. He doesn't have his microphone and for a second I wonder how he plans on making it back to his corner of the stage in time. Then my first line of the verse comes: “I used to obsesses over living.” 

 

Instead of him rushing back across the stage for his, he leans in to use my microphone. I can feel his warm breath on my lips as he says, “now I only obsess over you.” His voice has that slightly rough, desperate tone to it and god, help me, I wish. I don't mean for it to happen, but my eyes become fixated on him of their own volition.

 

“Tell me you'd like boys like me better,” I demand vehemently.

 

“In the dark lying on top of you,” he finishes and that coarse edge that his voice has is enough to draw a shiver out of me.

 

The next few lines involve heavier alternating, each of us getting only a word in some cases and our voices combining in places. Our faces are so close together that they nearly touch and it makes me weak at the knees. I can hear how it would be hard for someone to identify where I begin and he ends, or at least, our vocal parts. I wonder if he can hear the tiny note of hysteria climbing its way into my voice, which at least fits with the meaning of the words we're singing. I actually grab onto the mic stand for a second for stability, even though I am aware that if he gets me really unsteady, it won't be enough to hold me up. The worst part is that he has to notice what he's doing to me because he's right here. I hope that he thinks that I've just gotten swept off of my feet by the music and the art of performing it. 

 

He stays close to me through the rest of the song and even steals my mic for the spoken part that he has at the end. We go straight into “XO” after that, like we do on the album because that transition always made good sense. He bounces back over to his side of the stage and I wonder if he has any earthly idea just how much the lyrics to this song bother me right now.

 

I don't even know for certain what this was written about but...I don't want to think about him picking people out of the crowd to go off with and put his hand between their legs or go to cars or hotels. I feel faint just singing about it and maybe marginally angry too. If I had more spine I would pin him to the nearest wall after this was over and give him a piece of my mind. For a second, I wish there was a way to make him feel even a portion of the pain his escapades cause me, but that only lasts a second before I recall how hurt he was earlier and how horrible that actually felt. I don't want to hurt him, not really. I just want to end this pain before it swallows me whole.

 

Pete keeps the crowd's enthusiasm up with his stage banter in between the songs and it hits me for the millionth time just how lost I would be up here without him. How lost I'd be in every aspect of my existence if I didn't have him. He knows so automatically what roles and empty places in my life need filling and goes about filling them like it's just as natural as breathing. I don't think he even knows all of time that he does it. The only one he doesn't know he's leaving a big gaping hole in is of course the one role I most want him to fill. I have wished since the first month or so that I met him that we could be more than just friends but I know it isn't worth the risk. The band is too important and our friendship is too important. Suddenly I feel terrible about having been angry with him today at all. He's my best friend and I really messed up. It's not his fault I have a hopeless infatuation. 

 

I throw myself into “Grand Theft Autumn,” feeling the lyrics on too personal of a level. I can tell I'm doing a good job on this one (or as good as possible for me anyway) because the fans seem really into it and tons of them are singing the words. I give myself to the music completely for the next few songs, forgetting everything else. I even strut around a little and head-bang slightly and interact with Joe and sling my guitar. 

 

My concentration is near perfect at this point until I glance over and see my best friend taking off his hooded jacket. That would normally be no big fucking deal except that he isn't wearing a shirt under it and my stomach just drops. It gets even more impossible to take my eyes off of him when he throws himself onto the stage and writhes around on his back while playing, pushing his hips up a bit. It's not like he hasn't done that before either but...no shirt. I can see his skin glistening with sweat and lord help me, I want to lick it off so badly. It takes an incredible amount of effort to pry my eyes away. I try not to think about how much part of me wants him to come over here and give me attention. 

 

The next song is “Dance, Dance” and I love this song. It's one of those that make the music move through my whole body without me being self-conscious enough to worry about how that looks. I can see Joe climb onto the drum riser out of the corner of my eye and then jump off, in flight for that moment. We are so on right now and I'm proud to be a part of this. Pete struts towards me and I smile while I'm singing and it's like nothing happened earlier. My heart swells up, only to burst and rip and melt when he comes closer, standing behind me playing and I feel his lips against my neck, mouthing the words: “I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me.” I don't choke but my voice is breathier than normal. Other than I am able to control myself, keeping my expression the same and my body language the same. Just another minute of emotion to bottle up. I expect him to pull back now, because the fans are thrilled enough with that performance, but he lingers there for a moment and it takes more force to get the words out of my chest than usual. I don't want him to ever leave but yet I have to want him to because if he stays I might do something stupid.

 

The next couple of songs go well. I'm able to hold back most of my emotion, save it to examine later in the dark. It's a survival skill that life has taught me that I can be successful with most of the time. I pray I'm not creating an unstable dam that when it bust open will bury whole cities (or bands). I don't mind when he plays behind me again on “Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner” and I even lean into him a little when he wraps an arm over my chest. Giving in to the action, while not conceding my emotions to him.

 

It's during “Sugar We're Going Down” that something shifts. Something dangerous. Pete has that look on his face—that impulsive “I have a plan” look that I love and hate. Mostly I like his plans but something tells me to be on my guard this time. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't surprise me during shows. It's not the best time or place. Not in front of thousands of fucking people that can see my every mistake. I try to ignore the dread expanding sickly in my stomach. I force myself to breathe and focus single-mindedly on every single note I sing, every word. As if this song is suddenly life and death ~~so I won't have to think~~. I push my muscles, putting more movement into every strum of my guitar strings, every press of my fingers hard over the fretboard. I ignore Pete Wentz as much as I can while singing his song and letting it live inside of my chest. It's not much, unfortunately, especially not as he moves closer, only a few feet from me, slinging his bass. My body is so tense that I fear it might snap like an abused guitar string.

 

My voice rises and falls smoothly and I know that despite the pressure inside, my vocal cords are hitting every note perfectly. I've sung this song a thousand times. Right after that second chorus, Pete steps closer, only a few inches from me as he mouths the words “is this more than you bargained for yet” with me, looking at me as if they're some secret message but I can't deal with that right now. He moves quickly after that, dropping to his knees in front of me. He does part of that stupid (erotic) movement from the music video with his tongue and his hand, his fingers moving across his tongue (creating friction) and then instead of saluting he runs his hand over my jeans, just above my knee and up towards my inner thigh, his knuckles clinking slightly against the bottom my guitar.

 

I have to catch myself to keep from falling when my knees try to buckle as a result of going from being rigid to being like jello in about 0.5 seconds. While my legs aren't rigid now, other things are. _Fuck, fuck you Pete._ There's a slight clanging sound of discord as I miss a note and my voice doesn't even come in on the line “isn't it messed up how I'm just dying to be him” and I jerk the mic out of it's stand and walk away from him quickly, not even thinking about what I'm doing. 

 

“I'm just a notch in your bedpost but you're just a line in a song.” My voice actually shakes a little on that line and I can hear my anger when I sing “you're always sleeping in and sleeping for the wrong team.” I know the pronoun is supposed to be _we,_ but _you_ seems more fitting right now. Somehow, in my blind rage, I make it through the song and am thankful that the resentment that bleeds in fits well with his lyrics. We are supposed to have one more song, “Saturday,” and then a possible encore. 

 

I know that I'm letting the fans down. I know I'm fucking it up. _I know, I know._ The panic and hurt and anger is rushing through my head and turning me into an irrational fireball and _no, I'm not doing this._ I return to my spot and put my mic back into its cradle. I walk right over to the astonished bass player who has gone back to his own area. “You're singing Saturday,” I hiss into Pete's ear and I do something I've never done before. I storm off of the stage,livid.


	2. Lost and Found (Out): Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has been in love with his best friend for almost as long as he's known him. So when Pete starts hooking up with strangers frequently, he's far from happy about it. Unfortunately, this causes him to become irritable and snappy around Pete, which doesn't exactly help him keep his feelings a secret the way he always has before. Then when Pete oversteps his boundaries on stage, Patrick has a bit of a breakdown. His solution is to avoid Pete; the problem is that he can't keep that up forever, Pete won't let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most sexual content I've ever written into a fan fic, so hopefully I did okay writing that part. I obviously do not own Pete Wentz or Patrick Stump, nor do I own Joe Trohman or Andy Hurley or any other celebrity mentioned. This did not actually happen (as far as I know). Also the title to this belongs to Fall Out Boy!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left feedback/kudos on the first chapter, especially ISeeNoMore, ttlyxxxoblivious and amoergosum!

_You make this all go away._  
You make this all go away.  
I'm down to just one thing.  
And I'm starting to scare myself...  
I just want something.  
I just want something I can never have.  
-Nine Inch Nails “Something I Can Never Have” 

 

I try to sleep on the couch of the All Time Low bus but sleep doesn't seem inclined to come tonight. Already, Pete has tried to call me twelve times and has texted me ten times. It's nearly enough to make me roll down a window and throw my phone out into the road. I can't even bring myself to read any of the texts or listen to any voice mails. I know I should, just in case he decides to do something rash, but I just can't make myself do it. Joe and Andy promised to tell me if there was an emergency or anything (not that they're happy about all of this). I just hope they'll know if something really bad is going to happen. I also told them to let Pete know that I need some time to be alone and don't want him to contact me right now. Obviously, he doesn't give a shit what I say. He doesn't respect me enough to give me this space that I need and it just makes me that much more furious about it all. 

 

A small, miserable part of me is aware that this is kind of all my fault. If I didn't like the way he flirted with me onstage, I should have stopped him way before now because I should have known there would come a day when he pushed the boundaries a little too hard. I just didn't want to tell him to stop because I love it all too much. I knew that if I didn't let him whisper words against my skin, I would probably never know what it felt like to have his lips on me. So I let it go on and that just made it that much harder when he never wanted to give me that kind of attention offstage. If I wasn't overweight and generally hideous then maybe he'd hit on me. Maybe he'd want me. But he only hits on me for show and I'm not stupid enough to think that will ever change. So the real question is what am I going to do about it? I can't keep going on like this and I don't want to quit the band. I don't want to lose my best friend (if I didn't already assure that with my behavior tonight). 

 

The more I think about it, the more scared I get and the more the rage I feel turns inward. Pete might have taken things too far and he might have hurt me, but I was ultimately the one that lost it and was cruel. I already hurt him badly enough when I snapped at him before the show today. If only I'd been able to just deal with his antics and then calmly told him that he'd gone too far afterward. Now he's going to want a thorough explanation and I know that telling him that his touch made me uncomfortable is not going to be detailed enough. I've gotten mad at him before and we've fought before but not like this. Other than today, I'd never stormed off and flat out refused to talk to him after a fight. Nor had I ever snapped at him without at least explaining myself in some way afterward. I'm the worst best friend in the world.

 

It's around four in the morning by now and I wonder if he's okay and if he's somehow managing to sleep. I doubt that he is because he has enough trouble with trying to sleep on a normal night. As if to confirm that I'm not the only one still awake, my phone vibrates. I glance at the screen just to make sure that it isn't Andy or Joe, and of course it's Pete. A huge part of me wants to keep ignoring his attempts but I know that the other two guys are long asleep by now and what if something happened? I would never forgive myself.

 

I force myself to take in a deep, shaky breath and open the message.

 

_please talk to me. im dying here, trick. i cant lose u. tell me what I did and ill fix whatever it is. id rather die than lose my best friend._

 

He's just being over-dramatic, I hope. He couldn't prefer death over losing me. And I wouldn't leave him and the band behind this easily ~~I don't think~~. Still, after almost losing him to suicide before, I can't help but take that pretty seriously. I stare at the message for at least five minutes before I can think of anything to say back.

 

_You aren't losing me. I just need some time alone. Go to sleep, Pete. I will see you tomorrow night, at the show._

 

I set down my phone and shut my eyes, scrolling through my ipod and hoping I can find something that might help me sleep. It doesn't surprise me when my phone vibrates a couple more times. Which means that whatever he's saying is taking multiple messages. Shit. So should have ignored that text.

 

_u know i cant sleep without u breathing in the bunk next to me. or u singing to me over the phone. cant sleep knowing ur mad either. what did I do? was it bc of what i did during sugar? uve always let me touch u b4. it was just ur leg._

I groan out loud when I read his response. Why can't he just leave well enough alone? 

 

_Damn it. Seriously, you can sleep without me for one night._

 

I know he's going to argue because I deliberately didn't answer his questions. I try to ignore the double meaning my own words could have. I tell myself not to think about what I can't have.

 

_if u think ur gonna get away with not talking about what happened ur wrong. so u should talk now._

 

I want to scream when I read his response and I type mine up while I'm still furious, even though I know that it's going to come back to haunt me later. I just can't keep holding everything in;I need to let at least a few things out before I'm engulfed by all of it. I feel like an old pier in a storm and if I keep going along the way I am now, I'm going to end up being beaten to death by the waves. I don't want this to end with me collapsing into the sea.

 

_Fine! Yes, it was mostly b/c of what you did during Sugar. It was too much, you touching me that high and while on your knees. I would prefer if you'd just not touch me anymore._

 

I feel somewhat queasy after I hit send and already I wish I could take it back. He really did just touch my leg and he's probably touched that same spot randomly during everyday conversation before. It was the context and setting that made it different. That and the fact that he'd already had his lips on my neck. I had already wanted him so much and it somehow hit me harder in that moment that he would never, ever be mine. That this was just a game. I can't play anymore.

 

I'm not sure I really want him to _completely_ stop touching me, even if maybe that's what is in my best interest. It takes me a few minutes after he sends one back to even bring myself to read it.

 

_sry. no more touching from me. night._

 

I had actually been considering offering to call and sing to him...provided he promised we wouldn't talk. It's probably for the best that the conversation ends here though. I close my eyes and try to just breathe and stop thinking. It doesn't work and I don't sleep except for maybe about an hour the next afternoon when I doze off in front of the tv with Alex and Jack. Pete tries to drop by as soon as the buses stop, but Rian doesn't let him in. 

 

I get ready for the show as much as possible in the bus, even doing most of the last minute things that I normally do backstage there, like warm up. Alex pulls me aside about ten minutes before I have to go. It helps me breathe when he hugs me and I'm grateful for his simple strength. I don't know why he's being so supportive because I don't know him super well yet, but I'm eternally grateful.

 

“You should be honest with him, Patrick. You're destroying yourself this way and it's really hard to watch. I'm with you whatever decide and if you need to come back here, you're welcome to. Good luck with the show, I know you'll sound beautiful,” Alex tells me quietly, his expression is one of heartfelt concern. Another reason to ache until this is over.

 

I don't arrive backstage until twenty minutes before we have to go on. I try to pretend to be very busy and I can tell Pete knows I'm just avoiding him because of the way his jaw tightens.

 

Right before we go on, he comes to stand beside me. “Can I at least hug you,” he asks in a small voice.

 

I want him to, perhaps more than I've wanted anything up to this point. I need for us to be okay and there's a sharp feeling in my lungs that makes breathing hurt my chest so badly. I shake my head no, unable to even speak the words. I'm afraid if I give in and let him hug me, I'll do something stupid like never let him go or be honest about how I feel. I stare at the floor, afraid to lose at him. It's hard to believe that things like the floor can be this solid, that the world can be this sturdy, when mine is breaking apart.

 

He steps closer and cups my face in his hands, lifting my chin to make me look at him. “Patrick, we're talking about this afterward...and I know that this has to be more than just what happened yesterday. You've been slightly off lately. You can either make this easy and wait for me in the dressing room after, or you can make me chase you down and force you to talk.”

 

I jerk away from him. “I said not to touch me,” I complain. I can hear my anger and frustration in my voice, but it's the desperation and sadness that makes it waver. 

 

He puts his hands up slightly, as if to say he surrenders (for now) and he steps back to put some space in between us. A minute later we're taking the stage and I wish I could just go home. 

 

The show itself is miserable. Pete stays on his side of the stage and I stay on mine. Joe tries to keep the energy up but even he can't do it alone. When Pete speaks in between songs occasionally, he sounds so subdued compared to normal and I feel sick thinking, _I did that._

 

My voice sounds weak because it lacks breath support. It's honestly all I can do to breathe as is, much less sing. Panic is gripping my lungs because I know I have to talk to him after this is over. I don't know what the hell to say because there's no way to explain without telling the truth. I've never been a good liar. I want to refuse to talk and just go hide out in the All Time Low bus again, but that's no solution. Besides, I can't bear the thought of losing Pete as a best friend and running away from him for too long would be a great way of causing me to lose him. But the truth? What if the truth makes it awkward and he refuses to let me close ever again?

 

By the time we get to the last song, I feel like I'm choking out the words more than I'm singing them. When I glance over at Pete, he's looking back at me. Concern and anxiety cross his face and I have to look away again. 

 

Too soon, the show is over and we all head backstage. Everything in me is screaming to run away but instead I sit down on the floor in the dressing room and put my face in my hands. After a few short minutes, I sense someone sit down carefully next to me. He doesn't touch me but he's close enough that the heat from his body does. I exhale shakily.

 

“You should know that you can't say or do anything to make me stop being your best friend,” Pete says quietly. “You can tell me if I've done something to make you unhappy,besides last night I mean.” 

 

I finally sit up a little and turn to look at him. He has a shirt on now. There's only maybe six inches of space in between us and I know it's only there because he's trying to respect my boundaries. There's so much suffering in his eyes and I just hope I can somehow take it away without destroying our friendship. I want to bury my face in his neck but I don't do it because I was the one that needed space. I lean my head back against the wall and stare straight ahead so I don't have to keep looking at him.

 

“It's not that simple,” I whisper. “If I tell you, it might change everything. It could _ruin_ everything.”

 

“And I told you, there's no way you can destroy this. Whatever is going on has you really upset, so as your best friend I need to know. I need to be here for you. Even if...even if I'm the problem.” I can feel his intense gaze on me as he speaks, his voice full of conviction.

 

“I know better than to tell you this though. There's a reason I've kept this secret from you for years.” The desperation makes my voice go up an octave and I keep telling myself to stay calm and breathe, _and breathe,_ but my lungs won't listen too well. I feel lightheaded and close my eyes tightly for a moment.

 

“Years,” he whispers, sounding so...damaged.

 

I put my hands back over my face as If they'll somehow offer me some extra protection to block out my whole world turning to ashes. They don't. I still _feel_ and it's like having a hurricane in my veins. I try to hold my anguish in but it comes out in a soft sob, which makes me feel that much more pathetic.

 

“I know you told me not to, but I'm going to touch you,” he says suddenly.

 

I'm sitting with my knees to my chest and he uses that to his advantage and wraps an arm under my knees and another around my back. It's awkward and just as I'm about to protest he pulls me over and puts me into his lap. He changes his hold so that he has an arm around my waist. I know I should fight him on this but I'm too worn down, so I just turn enough to bury my face in his neck like I've been wanting to this whole time. I expect him to push for an answer but he doesn't yet, he just holds me tighter with one arm, like he's afraid to let go. He uses his free hand to take off my hat and gently stroke my hair. Normally I would probably bitch him out for removing my hat but having him brush his fingers softly through my hair is so soothing. This isn't something I normally let anyone do but then I don't usually sit in anyone's lap either.

 

At least five minutes pass and I'm trying to gather my courage to tell him how I feel when I hear a female voice I don't recognize. 

 

“Pete, dude, I thought we were going to hang out. Andy said you must still be back here so I hope you don't mind that I came looking for you. You uh...you look kind of occupied.” 

 

I'm guessing this is someone that he planned on “seeing” after the show so I figure there's no real point in sticking around. I can't do this anyway, no matter how many times he tries to assure me that I can. I pull back and use both hands to pry his arm from around me. He stops messing with my hair out of shock and I take the opportunity to stand up quickly. I grab my guitar case and hurry towards the exit. I get a good head start because I hear him stop to talk to the girl, which makes me grind my teeth a little.

 

I'm so close to All Time Low's bus, which is lined up with the others behind the venue. I think I've lost him and I'm just starting to feel relief course heavily through my entire being when I hear his voice.

 

“Trick, wait!” I freeze for a second too long and then his feet are pounding the pavement and suddenly he's too close. He reaches out and gets a hold of my wrist, forcing me to come to a halt. 

 

 _“Don't,”_ I tell him, trying to jerk free of his hold. He lets go and I think I might be home free but then he latches both arms around my waist and holds on for dear life. 

 

“Let the fuck go,” I snarl at him, shaking a little, though I'm not sure if it's more from fear or more from anger. I just want to escape the inevitable a bit longer. I don't want to have to lose him forever. At least until the words come out of my throat, I will still have the tiniest bit of illusion left that maybe things won't end badly.

 

“I'm not letting go until you tell me what's going on with you. You will just have to drag me along with you if you plan on going anywhere,” Pete tells me, much too calmly.

 

Our own bus is the closest and I'm only barely surprised when we crash into it from my fighting to get him off of me. I feel the way it shakes behind his back and a hysterical laugh escapes from me that sounds like it's being ripped from my throat. (Or maybe just like I'm being ripped open). It's really not funny but at the same time it is because this situation is just ridiculous.

“Why can you _never_ leave well enough alone,Pete,” I ask viciously, shaking him as he continues to cling to me and his eyes are wide with something like fear but he doesn't let go. “I would get over it eventually, I would.”

Am I trying to convince myself or him of that? I don't even believe my own words because if I was going to get over my feelings for him they wouldn't be wreaking havoc on my stomach right about now.

 

“Well enough? What are you even talking about! You're not doing well, Jesus, anyone can see that. Tell me what it is, Trick. I'm done being patient. We both know I'm not good at that, especially not when it comes to you. I can't keep watching you like this and having you somewhere else is even worse. If you're going to freak out, I need it right in front of me. I could never run away from you.” 

 

His tone is desperate and his voice shakes so much on those last two sentences. It's spears right through my chest and I suffocate. _I could never run away from you._ He doesn't have to sound accusatory for me to feel the kind of gnawing guilt that could nearly bring me to my knees.

 

The door to the bus slams open and I hear Andy's voice but I don't look because I'm too focused on Pete. I nearly fall when strong hands suddenly yank me (and the clinging Pete) towards the door.

 

“Walk,” Joe demands and I do because I can tell this is an intervention that I won't be able to get out of.

 

Andy is standing by the couch with his arms crossed over his chest when Pete and I sit down on it (don't ask me how he's still hanging on). 

 

“Joe and I are going to go play some xbox with All Time Low. You two are staying here, together, until you work it out, build a bridge and get the fuck over it,” Andy says seriously, his eyes boring into mine until I flinch. His eyes always seem to see too much and I wonder if he knows.

 

It's really quiet once they vacate the bus and I'm left alone with Pete again. It's probably good that they interceded when they did because I have a feeling that could have ended up as a fistfight at that rate.

 

“You're going to cut off my circulation if you keep holding on like that,” I say finally, just to break the silence.

 

He lets go slowly, watching me like he's afraid I'll explode as soon as I'm free of his grip.

 

“Why would you even want me freaking out right in front of you,” I blurt out, before I realize what I'm asking.

 

Pete looks at me like I'm genuinely retarded. “You're my best friend, Trick. I just want you, however you are.”

 

Suddenly I'm swallowing down tears,barely holding it together. What if I was wrong all along? Maybe he _can_ handle this. I know I have to do this so I swallow my fears even though they go down about as easily as rocks. The only thing I have to hold onto is that I get to _control_ how I tell him.

 

“I'll talk about it but only if you agree to some conditions first,” I tell him.

 

He responds with a small smile even if it's somewhat strained. “What are they?” 

 

I consider for a moment, trying to make the right moves, whichever ones might keep at least part of us safe. “One, you'll try your hardest not to freak out on me. Two, you promise that you will try to stay friends with me. Three, you'll give me space if I need it.” 

 

Pete looks kind of freaked out already and I'm not about to try to calm him down because I need him to understand how serious this is. “Okay,” he says delicately. The frightened but expectant look on his face adds even more pressure to my chest.

 

As many times as I've thought of what it might be like to tell him or to be with him, I've never come up with a good way to confess. The silence is a bit heavy and I decide that maybe in this case, actions will speak so much louder than words. I close the space between us until our thighs touch and even now his body is so familiar to me and the heat and energy of it makes me burn and _want._

 

“I think that maybe I can show you a little easier than I can tell you,” I say quietly, sounding so much steadier than I feel. I don't know how he'll react to this but I'm hoping that he'll at least kiss me back, however he feels. That maybe he'll give it a few seconds chance at least, to see if I can set him on fire too. I cup his chin and I lean in slowly so that he can still move away if it's what he wants.

 

By the time I cover his mouth with mine, he must have gotten over the confusion because he kisses me back. It's a brush of silk at first, so soft; it becomes more certain quickly, firm and full of fervor. It's not enough even as it makes my head swim. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, needing his taste like I've never needed anything. He lets out a soft whimper and my body vibrates in response, a tremor going through me. I want more sound, want to put my hands to good use, want to play him like a guitar.

 

My tongue slips into his mouth and his taste is so strong that I can't help but moan as I savor it. I slide one hand under his shirt because damn it if I'm going to do this, I'm going all out. His skin is so smooth and I can feel the muscles in his stomach under my hand. It makes me think about what it might be like if he put those muscles to good use with me....I need to feel him move inside of me, need to sink inside of him. I trace the tattoo that rides low on his stomach with my fingertips, going off of memory. That tattoo has featured in so many of my daydreams and it's surreal to be touching it, to be doing any of this. He's not stopping me at all and I want to take that to mean that maybe I can have what I've always wanted but I hesitate to do so without knowing for certain.

 

I pull away from the kiss, wanting to taste more skin, and he makes a noise of protest that makes me smile. I press open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and down to his neck, licking my way from the bottom of his neck to the beginning of his shoulder and back.

 

 _“Patrick,”_ he groans out. “I want you so bad.” 

 

The smile on my face must be huge because it makes him chuckle. Heat is kindling in my stomach, insistent. I slide my hand down over his hip and just under his belt-line, making myself crazy along with him. There are questions that I should be asking both of us but there are too many to worry about right now and this is too good to slow down too much.

 

I have to say something before I go on though. I can't just let things lie and take what I want. “I love you,” I whisper, staring into his golden-brown eyes. They're so dark and blown wide and it's overwhelming that it's because of me. That little hint of gold in them seems to flare up a little, the way it does when he's happy and I go weak with relief. 

 

“I love you too,” he tells me, his voice thick like honey, sliding down slowly into my heart, making it beat faster.

 

I reward him with a shower of kisses, covering his neck and as much of his shoulders as I can by pulling at his shirt. I wish he'd just left the shirt off but maybe I can fix that. I want to push him back on this couch but I don't really want Andy and Joe to walk in on us like this.

 

“Let's go back to the bunks,” I suggest. Seconds later we're stumbling back into my bed and I'm pulling the curtain shut behind us. I put a hand on his chest and push him back gently, pressing our lips together again. I kiss him until my lungs burn from the lack of air, until we're both worked up to the point that we can't stop touching, to the point that my hips are pushing down hard against his mindlessly.

 

“I need to be closer to you,” I announce breathlessly once I pull back to get some oxygen. My hands are shaking as I push up his shirt and stop just short of taking it off.

 

“Yes,” Pete chokes out, sitting up just enough for me to get the shirt off. His hands slide under the t-shirt I'm wearing. “I need your skin,” he tells me, his voice so impossibly low. I'm quick to get rid of my own shirt, carelessly tossing it wherever in my haste.

 

Before I even have a chance to think, his mouth closes on my nipple and I lean heavily on the palms of my hands because suddenly every muscle in my body has turned to hot liquid. “F-fuck,” I groan,unable to help myself. He pulls back after a moment and shifts us so we're on our sides. Then his mouth goes everywhere he can reach...on my chest and neck and stomach. He teases with his tongue and teeth and sucks some of my skin into his mouth, especially when he gets to my hipbones. By the end I'm a whimpering, shaking mess. Never could I have imagined the kind of power he truly has over me, how deeply he makes me ache to make him mine.

 

When he pauses to breathe, I push him back again, wanting to drive him just as insane as he has me right now. I need to make him need me the way I have him for years. I lavish my attention on him, leaving at least one mark on his neck. _I want everyone to see._ I caress him with my mouth until his breathing is fast and I stop just above his pants to lick slow, hot lines along his belt-line. I don't think I ever want to taste anything but him again. I reach one hand down and tug at his jeans to request access and when he just moans I take that as a yes. It takes some effort to get them down but he helps me.

 

It's hard to believe this is real and not just another dream but when I skim my hand over his boxers and finally _feel_ him, it's more real than any other moment has ever been. My senses anchor me here in this instant. The hard warmth under my hand, the desperate way he arches up into my touch, and the way his slightly swollen lips part all make this undeniably tangible. The sound of his unsteady breathing and the soft whine he lets escape his throat almost make me come undone. I _need_ to give him more but there's something I have to hear him say first or _so help me,_ I will stop right now, no matter how much my entire being would protest that. 

 

“I'll do anything to make you feel good, just as long as you tell me what I need to hear,” I say huskily, hoping that he won't deny me this. It's a little fucked up to ask it in this setting but I need to hear it before I can go on.

 

“What,” Pete questions, his forehead crinkling up just a little in confusion (and maybe frustration because I am not playing fair).

 

“No one else again,” I demand in a carefully controlled voice, knowing that I'm being much too possessive and half expecting it to send Pete running. We've made no real commitments here, not really, as much as I don't want to think about that. “Say it for me and I'll give you what you want.” 

 

“All I want is you,” Pete whispers, his fingertips suddenly tracing my face reverently. “There'll be no one else again, so long as you'll have me. I love you, Patrick Stump. Forget there was anyone else.”

 

I didn't really expect him to say that; I don't know what I expected and the sweetness of his response robs my lungs of all breath. “You're all I've ever wanted, the only one I'll ever let completely in.” It feels so good to finally speak the words that it actually hurts a little. “I love everything about you, even the things that drive me insane sometimes.”

 

He has no idea the number of things that no one else but him knows about me and I'm ready to give him everything else too, including all of the secrets that I keep reigned in tight. He kisses me tenderly and I know that no matter what else happens tonight, my world has changed irrevocably and I will find a kind of completeness in him.

 

When we separate to breathe, I slide my hand just under the waistband of his boxers and grin. “Should I take care of this for you now,” I ask deviously. 

 

He chuckles a little, his eyes still dark with want. “God, yes,” he replies.

 

I tug his boxers down and off, somewhat stunned by how exquisitely beautiful that he is now that I've got him laying here with nothing covering his body up. I take a moment just to consume all of him with my eyes. My hand runs gingerly over his chest,my nails grazing his skin as I continue downward until I'm gripping his hip. I lean down and let my breath kiss the tip of his cock, just to watch him shudder.

 

“So beautiful,” I whisper, my voice all hushed adoration and roughness. “I can't wait to swallow you down. I want to watch your face when you come undone.” 

 

His breathing is heavy as I lick my lips and move closer to brush my mouth over the tip of him, slowly. I get a shaky gasp for my efforts and satisfied with that, I lick him from base to head and then slide my mouth down over him. It feels good to have him fill me up, to be in control of giving him pleasure. I lose myself in the sounds he makes, the strangled moans that seem to increase the tighter my mouth gets around him. I revel in the intimacy of having him inside of a part of me, in the way I can see his mind blur. 

 

When he starts to get a little closer, I pull away for just a brief second. “I want you to pull my hair and fuck my mouth,” I nearly growl. 

 

He lets out a long moan, his hips arching a little as I go back down on him, making sure to angle this so that I can get him in deep. I wrap my hand around what little bit I can't swallow and get a rhythm going between the hot suction of my mouth and my hand. 

 

“Patrick,” he cries out softly, burying one hand in my hair and tugging. That's all the encouragement I need to suck harder, to push my mouth down farther so he hits the back of my throat repeatedly. “Fuck, Trick, I--I can't,” he nearly sobs out when I groan softly around him and he feels the vibration in addition to all the other stimulation.

 

I grip his hips tight in both hands for an instant, my nails digging in as I pull him in closer and then let go, trying to persuade him to arch his hips a little. That's apparently all he can handle and I try to memorize the way he looks with his face contorted in bliss and the way those soft little noises sound as he does just what I wanted and cums down my throat.

 

We cuddle close after we're mutually sated, my head resting against his chest. I could stay this way forever, breathing in his smell, his hand lightly stroking through my hair. My hat is probably still backstage somewhere but somehow I just can't seem to be bothered to go find it before we leave. For now my whole world has narrowed down to just one other person and I'm finally not scared of that anymore. After not sleeping last night, I'm pretty exhausted and I keep having to fight waves of contented sleepiness.

 

“Will you sleep with me tonight,” I ask,when I feel like I can't fight it anymore.

 

“Always,” he whispers. 

 

My heart skips when I look up at him because his lips are curved up into a gentle smile and I know I had something to do with putting it there. I end up falling asleep to the sound of his heart in my ear.


End file.
